


a single crack, a hundred graves, a thousand endings

by Emerian



Series: A is for Apocryphal [3]
Category: Fate/Apocrypha
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Drabble Collection, F/M, M/M, Servant Swap, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-09
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-10-19 18:17:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17606462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerian/pseuds/Emerian
Summary: The Red Faction undergoes a shuffle.Some fates are not easily shaken off.





	1. saber

At the ring he had been sent to after being taken captive and taught to be a gladiator, there had been these two guards, outside the so-called barracks, complained about the state of the empire. From there, he gained a semi-education of the Romans’ life, politics, and doctrine. They provided an easy escape from Spartacus's increasingly distressing desensitization to gladiatorial life. He could never stand seeing others be hurt; this must've been a punishment from some past deed.  Of course, this doesn't take away the sharpness of his fellow slaves being rotated out with someone new even if they never fought. 

That's probably where it started: the surge of purpose, the responsibility to lead these people and he clings to the energy it reinforces his body with. To be the pillar of hope is to cast away his past and devote himself to his new cause.

His body is a sword. 

His mind is a mirror. 

This is his mantra for the next few years.

_He needs to feel something._

Anything. 

It is a long time yet before he realizes that the adrenaline hasn't left him since the instant he broke the shackles. He's not quite sure what to make of that fact and he never gets the chance to. 

\- - -

“Shishigou Kairi. Nice to meet you.” His summoner holds out a strong hand.

Spartacus leaves him hanging to look at his surroundings.

They're standing around in an empty graveyard at night. The air is crisp and the wind absent. 

From either instincts or habits, he does not know which, an ugly thought he is well-accustomed to enters his mind:  _must I kill him too?_ He is very weary, so very weary of having to think the worst of everyone he meets. But there are grains of truth in the lessons and experiences he knows like the back of his scarred hands.

"So you're a Saber, right?" He jerks his head at Spartacus's gladius, nonplussed with the rejection.

"Are you incapable of verifying my Parameters and Class, Magus?" He was summoned by a fool, it seems.

"Well, I thought hearing it from the man himself would be a better idea." Kairi shrugs. "But if you say so." 

Spartacus waits patiently for the slight intake of breath. 

"...you must really hate getting summoned, huh? Does the Grail even sweeten the deal?" 

“The Grail means nothing to me," Spartacus answers. "I have already attained my Elysium in life."

"What about—"

"—the rebellion?" he finishes. “There will be others.”

Kairi manages to hold back his incredulity by lighting a cigarette. 

Spartacus squints at Kairi's ease. He's on edge but no more on edge than a well-experienced combatant. 

“I have to say...you aren't reacting as I expected.”

Kairi takes a whiff before responding. ”Well, yeah, I’m a little troubled by this,” he answers. “Because anyone would. But you hit the jackpot, Saber. I'm a first-class Master even if I'm not a typical Magus. So I hope you'll at least fight with me, because that's all my contract demands of me."

"The Grail doesn't tempt you?" 

"I'm a realist." 

Neither denying nor confirming it? Well, he will see if they do make it. 

Spartacus is the one Heroic Spirit who can utterly reject the Grail's advances. Every time he is summoned, he has always considered destroying the Grail and ending this accursed tournament. It's no better than the coliseum, nothing more than some flimsy illusion of freedom. They're still penned in till the required bloodshed is fulfilled.

Even so, there's always the off-chance he would hold the Grail with his unworthy hands.

In Thrace when he was a child utterly content in the world's security, he scampered off to were golden fields with sunflowers tall enough to blot out the sun. For a child, it was the hurdle for years yet. He hasn't been back for a while, even before the flower of youth was weeded out from his heart. 

However, it'd be a waste of a miracle to use it for something so silly as that. 

\- - -

For a second, Spartacus has no idea if he should be thankful for Kairi’s thoughtfulness: he doesn’t entertain the priest’s insistence on meeting the other Red Masters for a second. When Shammuramat asks if he’d like some refreshments, he decides he’s thankful. The woman is certainly beautiful with her apple-shaped face and the dress hugging her curves. Gentle fingers brushing his sun-kissed skin leave goosebumps in her wake.

He shifts and she receives the hint, gliding away. 

It sickens him. As if a monarch could ever care about a lowly gladiator, never mind the peasantry. He wonders why she bothers putting on this facade. It doesn't matter that this is a show and he has to perform. 

The truth is, Spartacus has been exhausted for far too long, too occupied to think or care about anything than freedom after escaping. Good, evil, pleasure, wealth, justice...they mean nothing to a man whose sole priority is survival. He hadn't the time or capacity to think about anything else. 

Rather than pieces, he probably left chunks of himself after escaping and there had been no time, no true opportunity to let loose because then they were regrouping, and someone pleaded him to rescue a forgotten member, and someone's kin, and someone's revenge, and then...leading the Third Servile War. 

He hasn't thought about his wife since he became a Servant—she did not deserve to suffer alongside him; he is glad she remained forgotten as this cross is too heavy to bear—and only her words remain with him. A prophetess, she proclaimed him key to the war. He examined his heart before accepting. There was no room for rejection. 

He is alone, he is shackled again, he is a man without a cause—does the Grail even count? What could a broken gladius do at this point? He said there would be other rebellions but it's the only thing he knows how to do well. Who will rebel? Who are the underdogs, the oppressors? There are no black-and-white morals to be found. The fact that he's supposed to subjugate a rebellion is proof enough. Though it's easy to throw himself into the role of a fighter for the Grail Wars, the new rule of fighting alongside other heroes is ripping apart his core.

He does not want this, but when has he ever gotten a choice? He's supposed to count himself lucky that Kairi is a Master more suited to his personality. 

"What troubles you?" Shammuramat asks when he fails to answer a question. Her soft, pink lips are pulled into a perfect frown. 

Kairi's still grilling Kotomine about the rest of Red Faction so he says, "Strategy," and gives a little spiel about it.

She smiles. "I believe we may have something in common after all."

Spartacus gives a slow nod. He still wants nothing more than to cut her down in all of her majestic glory.

\- - -

He ends up talking with only one other Red Servant. Though he's not particularly allergic to the idea, Shammuramat urged him to avoid Lancer ("Thracians are his enemies' allies," she said with a troubled look.), Berserker and Archer weren't even in the area, and Assassin turned up his nose at him and flounced off to gods know where.

And it’s not a very long conversation, because Kairi ducks into town for information, leaving Spartacus floundering, as much as he dislikes the description.

"What a surprise—to think even Spartacus is forced to endure the indignity of the Holy Grail's system." 

Rider is protected by smooth armor, as radiant as the sun, clinging to his legs and arms. The red cape wrapped around his torso is smoking at the edges. Somehow the circlet ends up being the least ornate out of everything else. Even the little gems adorning it are unobtrusive and lack a blinding gleam.

Spartacus narrows his eyes. He does not know how the priest figured out his True Name, but he will take care to avoid him in the future, and inform Kairi. Good fortune isn't something he can ever associate with manipulators. 

And there's nothing good about people dressing like peacocks. 

Royalty or thief? 

Warrior or pirate?

It seems Rider has noticed the shift in Spartacus's stance and he sighs, saying, "Take my words as recognition of your valor. We Heroic Spirits are indisputably bound despite the promised wishes we struggle for."  

"...I have no wishes," Spartacus asserts. "Asking for someone's name doesn't require one."

“I see. My name is Vasusena." The Servant's voice simmers like a funeral pyre. "You would do well to never forget it.”

"I would never forget a single one of my allies," Spartacus says after processing the available information. If it were not for the lack of a certain air, Spartacus would've left as soon as the Servant had shown up. Shammuramat had been a compromise for Kairi. He continues, "What brings you here?" because he still doesn't like people who participate in gruesome battles for the sake of honor and glory. The gods know he's gotten several lifetimes out of them in the ring. 

Vasusena's mouth tightens, as if speaking will curse him. "Caster," he says eventually, with thick loathing. "I assume you met with her already?" 

"Of course."

"Are you wondering if she spoke about you?" Gods, he can't help himself—he wants to know if Vasusena is a king's dog or a wolf ready to devour royal sheep. "She's mentioned a charioteer's son—" 

As expected, his eyes flare with red-hot anger, and he snaps, "As Angaraja, I must uphold my rank with the utmost respect and ability. Her crass remarks—" 

Compared to Spartacus, Vasusena's a young buck displaying his new antlers. The hardness of Vasusena's eyes do little to hide how he is a raging wildfire, one step away from being extinguished.

He has many regrets but this is not one of them. He instinctively ruffles Vasusena's hair, and the tirade screeched to a halt. It's always a shame when boys are forced to sprout sooner than what nature intended. Twenty-something-year-olds aren't much better off than teenagers.

Vasusena is deathly quiet but the frozen look tells Spartacus everything he needs to know.

"I apologize for my brashness," Spartacus says. "But like you said, I should recognize you too. Your kingship, that is."

A hand flies up to cover his reddening cheeks, and now Vasusena has the air of a rebuked child. Spartacus suspects he almost never lashes out and gets a scolding for it to anyone but his king, much less his parents. He thinks it's better it was him to press the big red button than some other hapless fool. 

"It was quite unnecessary," Vasusena bites out through the back of his hand. "Words have the same effect." 

Spartacus beams. 

\- - -

Spartacus is old enough to recognize the world’s unfairness.

Spartacus is young enough to reject the world’s unfairness.

He chokes on his next breath, and all of a sudden he can't breathe anymore.

Not physically, anyway, but when has that ever mattered? When has anything good and kind mattered in this wretched world?

“Kairi,” Spartacus starts, unable to tear his eyes away from the corpses.

“What is it?” Concern laces Kairi's voice as he turns around. 

Spartacus has always warranted some caution, but Kairi has always spoken to him like an equal, asking for his input. At this point, it doesn't matter if he's doing it out of self-preservation. 

"These homunculi were nothing more than sacrifices. Are they most likely doing this out of an indoctrinated will?" 

"Oh," Kairi says at first. "Saber—" he pinches his nose and drags in a deep breath that Spartacus just knows is the start of an explanation that won't make him go berserk. 

"I see," he interrupts, before Kairi can work himself into a stress-induced aneurysm, not unkindly. 

Kairi stares at him for a moment. Even with the sunglasses, he feels like he's being picked apart, so he dispels his gladius.

"Is that a 'rebellious-I-see' or an 'indifferent-I-see?'" Kairi asks finally. 

He knows what's going through Kairi's mind. Releasing the homunculi is a valid strategy to disrupt the Black Faction's operations. It'll appease morality and strategies. 

“Eliminating our quarries matters not when these people require our aid,” Spartacus says. “It’s-it’s inconceivable you would think ill of me. ...I thought I had dispelled your first impressions.”

"No—" Kairi waves his hands. "—sometimes, yes, but..." his voice turns soft. "I think I would know an aimless guy when I see one. Had to be sure."

Understanding hits Spartacus like tidal waves, drowning him in a strange calmness. The only thing he can do is declare, “You are a worthy Master. Though you are not mine, any other Servants you could had summoned are deluded to think otherwise.”

"Oh...err, thanks, I think?" the last part Kairi mutters to himself, baffled. 

His responsibility is to the living. It always has been.

\- - -

“Lancer and Assassin are dead,” the tiny Archer announces when they return to the catacombs after a night of countless Noble Phantasms, and another of hiding. She's already helped herself to their stew. “Rider was ensnared by Ruler. Berserker is uncooperative.” She rattles off information like it's her end of the apparent compromise, because when she finishes she plops back down with a frightening vigor.  

Kairi cleans his sunglasses while Spartacus takes a second to process the information from this wisp of a girl, who wears a lion’s pelt for a hat. Her verdant eyes are narrowed, sharpening her unimpressed face. One of her arms is tucked under her chiton, and there, he sees leather used as a hasty binding.

He has to close his eyes for a second. The information must come first. 

"Kairi and I retreated after the Golem-like Noble Phantasm took the field," he says, sitting down. Archer's chuff is full of satisfaction. "I sensed Assassin's downfall. But the others elude me." 

”Mm. Archer of Black had shot down Lancer. Ruler used her privileges on Rider—I'm assuming depriving him of mana will be their answer.” She doesn't look convinced. "I only heard Berserker raging to Caster. She wanted to fight more." 

Behind him, Kairi sighs and mutters something about making more stew. Archer's impassive eyes follow his every movement with the grace of a predator. Spartacus won't ask why a young girl was chosen by the wild, and it changes nothing about the situation, about how disgust wells up. 

“And what of the Black Faction’s state? Have you gotten into any skirmishes?”

“I hunted Archer of Black,” she says proudly. That explains the blood on her mouth. “And grounded Rider of Black.” A fierce scowl forms. "Assassin escaped before I could defang them."

That leaves Lancer, Berserker, and Assassin of Black, but after some more prodding, Archer explains Assassin's split from the Faction. 

Kairi passes a bowl over to her before saying, "So what possessed you to come here?"

"The priest's scent disturbs me," Archer admits in-between her hearty gulping. Though her face suggests she's drinking nectar instead of day-old soup, if she had a tail, it'd be swishing around in discomfort.

"And you think we're better company?" Kairi asks, ladling another serving.  

She shrugs. "Honesty trumps secrecy. I don't care if it's unpleasant." 

"Right." 

She turns to Spartacus. "And what have you been doing?" she asks. "Not loafing around, I hope, just because the War's been thrown into chaos. I don't intend to sit here and wait for them to come to us." 

"No," he says. "Hope is not lost to us. For you see, we were approached." 

\- - -

He leads the liberation. Of course he does—he cannot let anyone else die.

He is exhausted but not exhausted enough to silence Siegfried and Astolfo's protests.

He will never see the Thracian fields again, but perhaps the homunculi will, and grow taller than the sunflowers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was feeling a bit emo over the possible plot points in flowers for eve so i needed to get this out of my system. Spartacus is growing on me. 
> 
> next is probably atalanta. mordred is the only one who i haven't decided on yet, guess we'll see if it'll be an angery kingslayer or a knight lily.


	2. lancer

The voice is whetted by blood and tears. His pleadings pass through an ear and out the other because all Achilles can think of is how this soldier is someone's husband, someone's brother, someone's son. Who's about to become a shade.

He closes his eyes and forces himself to breathe. He thinks he understands what it means to be a bundle of nerves now. His body's shuddering under the sunlight, unable to release tension. It hurts. It's what he deserves. 

After Paris draws his bow and lets his arrow loose, he’s almost relieved by the way he finally crumbles, and staggers, before taking dozens of Trojans with him to Hades. Achilles could never sully Patroclus's sacrifice by giving up and wasting away; he will be the best, even in death. He is still a hero. He has made his peace with the world, even if it is an open wound, no matter how long it'll take to close. 

This doesn't spare him the ragged breathing as he lays in an ocean of dying dreams, face-down in the unforgiving dirt. He's bleeding out just like him.

This is how Patroclus died, he realizes, alone and broken by Hector, entombed in Achilles's armor. 

This is how Achilles achieves his immortality, by losing his humanity. Even though he had given back Hector's corpse to Priam, this cannot replace the emptiness inside his chest. 

_“Don’t look at me like that. We'll meet again, Achilles. In Elysium or Tartarus.”_

\- - -

The Throne doesn't drag him kicking and screaming into a clearing where chains ensnare him upon his materialization and his spear smashes apart fish scales before it's taken from him. On the contrary: Achilles felled trees in his wake and roared in a mix of grief and frustration when he saw the woman next to the white-haired youth. It was after realizing the decadent beauty, regal mannerisms, and fine clothes that there's a monarch standing before him. 

Not that she could ever pass for Agamemnon, but Achilles had obliged the howling bloodlust surging through his form. 

“Lancer,” the white-haired youth says, subdued surprise still etched into his face. He is rubbing his eye. “You gave us quite a scare there, during your arrival. I'm—”

“—I don’t care,” Achilles says and chokes on his venom, leaving a lifeless, “Leave.” His throat is swollen, flooded by his not-quite-gone grief. "Unless you're the enemies I'll strike down." 

Shirou blinks, and hard glints passing through his gray eyes. They’re like reforged metal and Achilles absently pinpoints each and every crack. His fingers twitch, almost curling into fists. How many steps would it take to rip out Shirou's heart? 

The Servant's eyes narrows and she says, “Pardon my Master. I am Shammuramat, the regent of Assyria.”

Her pretty words fly over him. Shammuramat’s apple-shaped face displays nothing but concern. Perched on her shoulder, the golden dove chirps a sweet greeting.

He has to close his eyes again. They're throbbing from the insane amount of bullshit he's seeing, this time. She is cleverer than Briseis, but it is not something Achilles cares for. He does not care much these days.

But they leave him alone well enough, and that is what matters. 

\- - -

This shield's his greatest and worst Noble Phantasm. 

In a burst of white shards, Achilles stands tall in the center of a white city. Poseidon's oceans' crash against his legs. Constellations swirl around in an azure sky, bleeding lives into legends. 

 _Swift-footed Achilles, Hector of the shining helm, Aias the mighty, cunning Odysseus,_ and so on, do the Muses trill. 

This makes it all the worse, he thinks.

He exhales, an almost sigh because it doesn't give him the relief he desperately wants, and moves again, one foot after the other until he is jogging, running, sprinting. 

The world swells larger with each breath and drowns him in gold and green. Achilles's soul has never felt so full—it's exactly like taking your first breath of relief after diving—and the world sings a song of fate and tragedy. Notes fall and rise with his chest.  

Adam's world is strong and untested. What worth does a world have when it knows nothing but peace and prosperity? He'll trample these flowers and it'll be the end of that.

It never stood a chance. 

So does Achilles. He'll never stop fighting until his heart and heel are pierced again but he hasn't eaten, hasn't slept, hasn't ceased moving since the damned messenger. He crumbles and catches himself with his hands, suddenly breathless. Taking a dagger to his ribs hurts less than the air in his lungs. The shaking starts when he realizes even the rock can't cut up his divine skin. 

The first sob is silent, unrepresentative of how much it  _hurts._ He can't keep doing this, but he is, but he can't keep sprinting like his, but he's here and he'll continue to exist when it releases its hold on him. He'll have to live again. It's impossible and cruel. He can't live in this world. This is never worth the price to engrave his name in the world. 

“Patroclus,” he mutters. His hands are shaking, his head is pounding, his heart is trembling. “Patroclus, Patroclus, Patroclus. _Y_ _ou—”_

 _"You're gonna live,_ _" Achilles says before Patroclus puts on the helmet._

He's still sniffling and panting when something makes its way through the dust, and something in him...just fades. Achilles fades and something raw and primal seizes his heart—it is the godhood inside Achilles ascending, he thinks, and nothing makes much sense afterward. 

This is not something he can heal from. 

The world is beyond the likes of a broken bone.

It is a festering wound in need of amputation. 

\- - -

There had never been enough time. He thought he was the one with stardust in his divine blood. Bright, but ultimately fleeting.

 _Achilles is twenty-six and Patroclus is twenty-eight ten years after breaching Ilium’s sand._  

He had been the fool. And he will never make that mistake again.

_"My honor, my dreams—" Achilles breaks off. He doesn't want to finish the sentence._

"You let him go?" 

_"I want you to grow old and wise." Patroclus turns around and smiles warmly under the cold shadow of the helmet._

"Lay off—the dumbass charged in without warning me!" 

_There is something strange about Patroclus's quiet resolve now._

"I will not let you." 

_"I trust you," Achilles had said quietly, in a voice worn raw by love._

He does not care, even if he could listen and hear. He does not have time, he does not have anything, he does not have energy but swinging his spear is the easiest thing he has done in a while.

He advances.

He only has eyes for the fleeing man, the man he desperately wants to call a coward, but who in their right mind wouldn't flee from a god? That's right—the undeniably sane man who let loose this god by killing his companion is too fearful of what he's created. 

“You butchered him!” Achilles screams. “You killed him, chopped him up and fed him to your gods-forsaken dogs!”

Two weighty mana signatures converge on him like arrows. It's enough to distract Achilles momentarily, to avoid getting trampled by the golden chariot.

Then—Rider and Saber are landing in front of him, blocking Hector’s retreat from sight.

“I said, ‘I will not let you,’” Rider's sharp timbre is piercing as ever, but it can never cut the scorching rage. “Do you intend to make me a liar?”

Achilles charges Saber first.

Rider clicks his tongue in dissatisfied acceptance and his bowstring thrums with power even as he lowers it. He hops down from his chariot and it leaves a roar in its wake as it fades. 

“Peace, Pelides!” Saber barely dodges the first thrust, and arms the size of trunks grab him 'round the waist to throw him back. 

Goddamn Thracians. Achilles should've killed him before the night had her first drop of blood. He lands on his feet and Rider tackles him, a blazing sun trying to consume a falling star.

He is going to run out of time.

\- - -

When he recovers Patroclus, he will build him a pyre fit for the only man who could had defeated him. He will construct the vase himself, anoint it in gold and untarnished honor. And when he pours the warm ashes into the vase, he will remember to make room.

Patroclus was supposed to live, supposed to survive and now he is a corpse, unloved. So Achilles will become proof that he had lived, that Achilles and Patroclus are inseparable names even though he is a hero of the world now and they stand alone as a pillar of strength and virtue. His sacrifice was not in vain. 

It should've always been him—the pile of ashes, the corpse, the death muses sing of— _everything._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don't let patroclus become a patty cake.
> 
> ok achilles wanted to be written now apparently and atalanta's section is looking kind of short. 
> 
> anyway, this is kind of a plotless story--i guess it could be like a puzzle, but i'm just writing scenarios that come to mind and doing my best to create a timeline from there.


End file.
